


Lunacy

by blanketed_in_stars



Series: 52 Weeks of Wolfstar [19]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: 1981, Azkaban, Grief/Mourning, Guilt, Imprisonment, Internal Monologue, Loneliness, M/M, Marauders' Era, Post-Hogwarts, Solitary Confinement
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-11
Updated: 2015-05-11
Packaged: 2018-03-30 03:02:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 571
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3920494
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blanketed_in_stars/pseuds/blanketed_in_stars
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>they say that hell is crowded, yet,<br/>when you’re in hell,<br/>you always seem to be alone.<br/>& you can’t tell anyone when you’re in hell<br/>or they’ll think you’re crazy<br/>& being crazy is being in hell<br/>& being sane is hellish too.</p><p>—"Lost" by Charles Bukowski</p><p>Or, Sirius's first lonely full moon in almost ten years.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lunacy

**Author's Note:**

> Week 19

On the ninth night, Sirius can't sleep. He hasn't slept the last eight, either, but this time the light slanting through the window slices at his eyes. The moon outside hangs bright and full—the only clean thing in this place, he thinks, rubbing at the still-raw tattoo on his neck. The brilliance only makes things worse.

Some scrap of light, a different, better kind, comes slowly to the front of his mind. The glow of old lamps that barely reached the back of the library. The darkness in that corner was better, too. Less sinister. And the way the lamps touched on Remus's face, made his green eyes shine—

Sirius shoves that thought away before it's taken from him and stares up at the moon. The bars are stark across its whiteness and cold under his palms. He presses his face between the unyielding metal despite the briny gust that chills him through, as if being closer to the moon will bring him closer to the wolf, somewhere away and to the west. He's never seen the transformation, but he's seen its aftermath. He's supported tired limbs and mended torn clothes, poured cups of water and whispered healing spells. And always, even under the pale glare, he's _helped._

He's gripping the bars so tightly that his fingertips have gone numb. Turning, he curls up on the cot and pulls the thin blanket over his head. Still, the light finds him. It shines brightly down like a condemnation. And he is guilty, after all—isn't he? Barely more than a week and he's already unsure of himself. Maybe it's because there was no trial. But what would they have said? _Sirius Black, your actions brought about the death of your best friend and his wife, and twelve muggles besides._ And then, he supposes, they'd have chucked him in here anyway, even if Peter hadn't escaped.

He can't breathe under the blanket, but he doesn't think he can bear the sight of the moon. Once he asked Remus what it was like to transform. The description that followed, of stretching bones and splitting gums, nearly made Sirius ill. The worst part to hear about was the spine, how it cracked and snapped into a different shape entirely.

Remus had looked pale himself, just talking about it. And Sirius had held him, and one of them must have drawn the curtains around the bed because they kissed. And then—

And then what? The brief spark flickers out, bleached of its color like the cold, scarred moon. Outside the cell door, the dementors are moving. He can hear the whispering of their robes. Another memory gone, or at least twisted beyond recognition. And still the moon stares balefully. Somewhere Remus is in pain, hating him, alone. Sirius feels an itch in the back of his mind, a temptation, the lure of Padfoot and perhaps a connection that will stretch across the sea. He resists the itch, as well as the urge to smash his head in against the bars. That would mean coming out from under the blanket.

He presses his thumbs against his closed eyelids in a last-ditch effort to escape the light. "Forgive me, Remus," he mumbles. He's been saying it to himself for the past nine days as if, somehow, Remus will hear. _I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry._ But the only reply is the crash of waves against the shore.

**Author's Note:**

> I suck at monologue-y things, so please forgive the brevity!


End file.
